


29

by yuliaplisetskaya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, i need to learn how to write over 1k, this is like really short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 06:34:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9644561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuliaplisetskaya/pseuds/yuliaplisetskaya
Summary: Set on the 29th of January post-The Final Problem. Sherlock and John see their anniversary through different lenses.





	

Sherlock marks the date on his phone.

Of course, this is not an unusual occurence, remembering he is an organise-everything-the-devil-is-in-the-details sort of man. He has a mark for the day John first stopped limping, the day John brought his first date over, the day John stopped bringing dates over, the day John stopped bringing _him_ over. He has a mark for John’s favourite jumper, John’s favourite pair of trousers, John’s least favourite shirt that could be used for an experiment of the tension of fibre, John’s least favourite shirt that smelled so much like John that Sherlock got heady just holding it.

Sherlock has his phone on vibrate, though, and the staccato burns a hole through his tailored suit, like it doesn’t approve his thirty-year-old self’s kneejerk reaction toward being asked out. _Married to your work, you said, what sort of work? You were a relapsing addict with no tether in the world._ He keeps telling himself that love isn’t supposed to be a battleground, even as he phones Angelo to prepare the apple lasagna the Italian no longer serves and dons his cleanest Dolce and Gabbana shirt. He reserves a table for two, tonight 7pm, makes sure their seats are the ones close to the window. If he wants to replicate fate and alter destiny, might as well get it right.

He feels rather than sees his fingers tremble—damned withdrawal symptoms—and clench them until his nails draw blood. Soon, he tells himself, straightening his back and rearranging his sparse case wall. Soon the universe will right itself.

 

John marks the date on his phone. There isn’t much he saves on the bloody relic, because he has his grocery list and boring routine memorised. When the alarm goes off, he has a sudden urge to grab the phone and throw it to the wall; a violent tendency he swiftly quashes in fear. This exact impulse is what caused him to rip his life support in half before the bruised man could so much as explain. This exact impulse declared ownership over an angel who hung the moon for him before it tore his wings off. This exact impulse doesn’t know how to compute feelings; it translates love into fear, fear into anger, anger into abuse, and God damn him if he weren’t becoming a monster he’d tried so hard to vanquish.

John stares at his knuckles, flexes and unflexes them. He sees the shadow of Sherlock’s blood in every crevice of his bone. The smallest roll of his joint echoes like Sherlock’s muffled scream, each pop a rapid litany of ignored apologies, “he’s entitled; I killed his wife”. He wants to destroy his room. He wants to destroy his hands.

He wants to destroy himself, but he can’t, so he curls into a ball and lets out a wrecked sob. His chest heaves with every aborted breath he takes in, and it hurts, and dear God if this is the payment he is meant to take then let it hurt; he deserves it. In her nursery, Rosie wails, probably hungry or needs her nappie changed, but John can’t even move, one shift of his body and he’ll break into smithereens. There is a belief rooted somewhere deep inside John’s heart that everything could have been different. If he had been brave enough, maybe Sherlock could get rid of the bursts of anger the way he got rid of John’s psychosomatic limp. He could teach John how to be gentle the way he taught John how to dance waltz. Sherlock is a good teacher. He’s brilliant and patient in the ways John could never be.

But that’s asking too much from a knight who has saved an ungrateful damsel’s arse too many times over, so John kept his wishes to himself. _If I can’t be saved_ , he thinks, dragging himself forcefully out of bed to take care of Rosie, _then at least let me save him from myself._

 

 

 

2.03 pm Up for dinner at Angelo’s tonight? He says he still has the apple lasagna you always ordered. SH

2.15 pm Sorry, Sherlock. Maybe another time?

2.16 pm Alright. SH


End file.
